Punk rock, punk rock in the corner, in the white walled corner of the punk rock party over on the WEST side, rocknroll, punk rock party in the corner of the room. There's a heart, a heart of wax on the table, dripping from a candle, some punk rocker has picked up the candle and dripped it around the table and made a big ol' red drippy heart and written FUCK ME in the middle of it. I am not punk rock. I am Gap, a gap in the hole keeping the raging storm outside and not in here, punk rock loft, punk rock loft with holes in the wall what am I doing here? I am not punk rock, just sitting in the corner trying to be ignored by everyone, doing my goddamn best impression of 16 year old me, in the corner, at the party, please don't look at me, please don't look at me, please ignore the man behind the iron curtain, he is not punk rock, he is Gap, you don't need to see his identification, he is not the punk rocker you are looking for, you can go about your business, move along, move along.

Punk rock party, punk rock party in the corner, the corner of the room, the kitchen-cum-dance party where all the coolest of the coolest are taking refuge from the punk rock band in the living room-cum-rehearsal-hall, blasting away, blasting away. Secret underground dance party has been created within the secret underground party, hippest of the hippest, baddest of the baddest, and yours truly, not cool, not hip, not bad, but tired, tired of not finding a chair in the living room, tired of his ears hurting from the punk rock, punk rock, 1-2-3-4! punk rock party in the living room. I'm sitting on a chair made out of a tractor seat. Little brass thingy in the middle pushing, pushing right up against my groin, thank you! I don't need to be reminded! Punk ROCK in the CORNER, woman at 11:00, black as the night is long, little late-80s dreads, complaining about the lack of 70s soul artists at the dance party, rocknroll, rocknroll.

Punk rock party in the corner, my friends run by, the punk rockers who invited me to the party, the punk rockers who own the loft-cum-collective, punk rockers running by me, my arm follows them like a radar gun follows a drunk 16 year old in a 74 Duster, Hey. Uh. Hey. Hey! They just keep walking by me, cause they're PUNK ROCK! I am not punk rock. I am a hole, in the corner, a nonperson tonight, dead weight holding down the chair, donchaknow, donchaknow, I am a dead man, a dead man walking, and I don't mean the David Bowie song, I mean the Jim Jarmusch film, this is how not punk I am.

And then she comes in.

Earth goddess slacker mother of a million punk rock daughters and sisters. I mean, holy shit, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, shufflin' along in her clunky Doc Martens, bad posture, bad haircut, bad clothes, cheap as fuck glasses to make her look uglier than she is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I implore you, am I not a human being? Our God in Heaven in all Your Infinite Wisdom, what have I done to deserve such a perfection of beauty to walk into my life on a night when I am feeling so fucking sorry for myself? I will change my ways, God, I will repent, I will stop being an atheist, just take this vision of delight and sweep her out of my world, make her hate 70s soul artists and turn on her tiny, slender, black-hosed ankles and walk right out of the party, Please, my Father, I beseech you, in your name I pray, Amen.

She sits down.

She is barely a woman, she says to me, holy shit, all this and she can read my mind too! She is barely a woman, she says to me. I'm like five percent over the minimum standard requirements to be a woman. All my friends and I decided to dress girlie tonight. And there's twenty-three of them out there, out there, who are running around in cocktail dresses and boas and high heel shoes, they're looking girlie, they're looking very girlie. And look at me. And I do. Look at me, she says, do I look girlie to you? I can't fucking do it!

Punk rock party in the corner, rocknroll, rocknroll.

She says Can I have your beer? I say Of course you can. She says So what band are you in? I say I'm a writer! intending it to be a scathing self-deprecating remark. Punk rock queen is impressed. She doesn't know any writers. All her loser friends hang out at Fireside three times a week and are all teaching themselves to play bass. It's cool to finally meet someone who's finally doing something with their life. Oh benevolent and fearful Lord in all your Infinite Wisdom and Grace, what have I done that has angered you so? Why do you taunt me with these pleasures of the flesh when we all know that tonight in the bedroom it will be me and the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, once again, 244th day in a row? God, what have I do to anger you so? I make my solemn promise, here and now, you make the punk rock queen get up and leave this very second, I will stop masturbating. I will throw away my pornography and dedicate my life to celibacy and faithful prayer. Please God, please.

So, she says, have any of your books been published? I am an atheist once again.

Punk rock, punk rock party in the corner, wax heart slowly being chipped away by black-painted fingernails, we are talking, we are talking and laughing and drinking, and drinking and smoking and laughing and talking, talking laughing drinking smoking I ran into some guys from Nebraska! she says to me. I ask her why this gets her so excited. She says because she's from Nebraska, donchaknow, rocknroll. Omaha or Lincoln? I ask her. She grew up in Omaha, went to college in Lincoln, rocknroll, rocknroll. She's a punk rock queen, editor of a thousand zines, each slightly more popular than the last, drummer of a thousand riot grrrl bands with names like Toxic Shock Syndrome and Go-Gos Suck Ass, breaker of a thousand hearts, reviewer of a thousand twelve-inches, attendee of a thousand punk rock parties, rocknroll, rocknroll. I think I'm in love.

She asks where I went to school. I say Columbia Missouri. Really, she says? Our band played in Columbia Missouri. I say, I know, I SAW your band play in Columbia Missouri. It was a punk rock club, owned by a couple of high schoolers, a converted storage space, bring your own liquor, smoke outside, won't you please donate to Food Not Bombs? Your band fucking rocked! She says pay the piper boy, ladedah ladedah. Punk rock may never die but bands sure do. She's in Chicago now, hanging out, sitting in, trying to decide what to do with her life post-Nebraska, post-punk band, post-22-and-sitting-on-top-of-the-world phase of her life. I tell her I know what you mean, sister.

Punk rock party in the corner. There's a commotion in the living room. Everyone starts yelling 5-4-3-2-1 and suddenly a Prince song shakes the very foundations of the building. Happy new year, she says to me, and I say To you also, and she reaches over, reaches over and plants two soft firm punk rock lips onto mine and sends me into heaven.

I ask her what her name is. Amy, she says. Amy the Nebraska Punk Rock Queen. We are out of beer.

Punk rock party, punk rock party in the living room, line for the keg, crowd for the keg, ugly amoebae floating in space in front of the holy silver barrel I am trying to reach. There are a lot of women in boas. They are all dancing in a big drunken circle on stage to the croons of early-80s disasters. The worse it is the better it is at the punk rock party! Xanadu? Bring it on! Rush? Gimme more! Diver Down? All-RIGHT, punk rock new year, 1-2-3-4!

I run into Jean, my punk rock bassist friend who's invited me to the party. She asks how I'm doing. I reply that one, I'm no longer believing in God again, fuck him if he can't take a joke, and two, a woman from Nebraska named Amy just kissed me in the kitchen. Oh, Amy, she drawls out, signals so clear I could read them off the screen of an IBM laptop. Now you just watch yourself, her drawl says to me. This Amy's dangerous, her drawl says to me. Dangerous? If it wasn't for dangerous women I'd have no love at all. Amy, the dangerous Nebraska Punk Rock Queen. Bring it on, rocknroll, rocknroll.

I go back with the beers. She's still there. She's been wondering what took me so long, ladedah ladedah. She says Wouldn't it be nice for once if a beautiful but empty airhead hit on us, just to prove that we could do it if we wanted to? I ask her to go home with me. She takes a drink of her beer and asks what do I mean? I say Baby, I'm a timebomb waiting to go off. I say Baby, I dance too close to the flame. There are things you don't want to know about me, donchaknow, donchaknow, or at least that's what I want you to believe. In reality, you know everything there is to know about me, this half-hour we've been talking, each and every single thing there is to know about me. I dance too close to the flame, baby, and then I burn my finger and blow out the candle and crawl under the covers and cry myself to sleep. I'm no punk rocker, and that's what makes me dangerous. Who in their right mind would go to a punk rock party if they weren't punk rock? I'll tell you, baby, it's the cold and lonely and afraid. So get your coat on, Punk Rock Queen! You and I are hitting the coffeehouses! We're gonna get wired on double espressos and have an animated discussion about the new Banana Yoshimoto novel! I'm taking you home and I'm making love to you all night long, I'm making love to you to the blaring of Sonic Youth, and I'm talking old-school Sonic Youth, Daydream Nation, scratchy vinyl on a beat-up Fisher-Price stereo.

Rocknroll, she says. Give me a minute while I get my coat.

Punk rock, punk rock party in the corner, wax heart now gone, just FUCK ME in its place. Twenty minutes pass. Rocknroll, donchaknow. I wander into the living room, run into Jean again. Now she's wearing a boa and dancing, flinging a glass of Makers Mark every which way but loose. Have you seen Amy? I ask her. Amy who? she slurs. Amy the Dangerous Nebraska Punk Rock Queen, I reply. Oh, Amy, she drawls again, then points in the corner.

Amy. Amy, the dangerous, Nebraska, passed-out Punk Rock Queen. Amy, being carried by three of her friends, one under each arm, one under both legs. Amy, completely unconscious, tongue hanging out of her mouth like a cartoon dog on an August day.

Farewell, my Amy. Farewell, my dangerous Nebraska Punk Rock Queen. One day we shall meet again under the harsh lights of a bowling alley and you will have no idea who the fuck I am and I will make a fool of myself attempting to recount the story to you. But until that day, I hope you party like it's 1999.